


One Word at a Time

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [24]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Whump, hopelessness, shock collar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27175738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: Prompt No 24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSEForced Mutism| Blindfolded | Sensory DeprivationMalcolm Bright may have an impressive weapons collection — housing beautiful, unusual, and expensive blades of all shapes and sizes — but his greatest and most reliable weapon has always been his words.
Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947595
Comments: 18
Kudos: 85
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	One Word at a Time

Malcolm Bright may have an impressive weapons collection — housing beautiful, unusual, and expensive blades of all shapes and sizes — but his greatest and most reliable weapon has always been his words.

He's talked down countless killers over the years; convinced dozens of desperate people to lower their weapons, to release the hostages.

His ability to connect with even the most damaged individuals, to understand what they need to hear and communicate it in such a way that they not only believe him, but trust that his suggestions are truly their best option, are what made him one of the most successful profilers at the FBI (much to the chagrin of his superiors who were forced to balance their desire to close cases quickly and with as little bloodshed as possible with their inherent dislike of Malcolm himself. They would have fired him years before if it wasn't for his exceptional solve rate).

Malcolm, understandably, has come to rely on his words throughout the years.

So when John Watkins steals his words away, Malcolm is overtaken by a hopelessness and desperation that no amount of mental or physical torture could have possibly inspired.

"Okay, little Malcolm," John murmurs as he kneels on Malcolm's back. With his hands chained and trapped beneath his body, Malcolm has no leverage to throw the man off. "I think a little quiet reflection time will do you a world of good. You talk and talk and talk and you can't hear the Lord around your own voice."

Malcolm feels the slide of a stiff material as it wraps around his neck and thinks, at first, that John is going to strangle him, perhaps with a belt.

"Please, John, you don't want to do this," Malcolm pleads, writhing beneath the crushing weight of the man. It doesn't take long to realize, though, that while the strap around his neck is snug, if he doesn't struggle, it doesn't cut off his air supply.

As he forces himself to still, he hears the quiet snick of a padlock snapping shut and understands that John isn't intending on killing him — yet. As John pushes to his feet, shoving Malcolm even harder against the cold, unforgiving concrete as he moves, Malcolm shifts and brings his bound hands up to his throat, his fingers sliding along the collar until they meet the small box that sits just left of the centre of his throat.

A mere four hours into his captivity, John has secured a shock collar around his neck, tired of Malcolm's insistent questions, tired of his attempts to relate and to explain away John's behaviours.

With eyes wide and full of fear, Malcolm looks up at his captor, only to find John grinning back down at him, pride shining bright on his face as he wiggles the remote in his hand.

"That's better, little Malcolm," John coos. "My grandad always taught me that children should be seen and not heard. Seems like Martin never got the chance to teach you that lesson, but it's never too late to learn."

"Jo—" The plea is cut short before it can even pass his lips. 

The shock performs double duty, feeling like flames lapping against his skin where the collar's probes touch his throat, while simultaneously shooting such an intense jolt of electricity through him that it knocks him to the ground and reverberates through his bones.

It takes every ounce of will-power he possesses to keep from screaming at the shock, knowing the sound will merely prolong his agony. He winds up curled in a fetal position, panting for breath and trying to contain the whimper that wants to escape from his throat.

"I fiddled around with the collar a bit," John says quietly as he crouches down next to Malcolm's twitching form. "Disabled the safety features. That's just a taste of what this can do. I'd suggest you keep your mouth shut and listen. I'm gonna instruct you in the ways of our Lord, and if you listen carefully enough, He may even speak to you directly."

Malcolm feels the tears trailing down his cheeks, feels the cold from the concrete floor wending its way through the flimsy barriers of his lightweight suit and goosebumped skin, tries to focus on these things rather than the disconcerting tingling that's still jittering through his blood and muscles and bones and teeth.

He doesn't acknowledge John, but John seems just fine with that. After rifling around in his bag for a moment, John slides down against the wall, sitting only feet away from Malcolm, but with his hands chained to the bolt in the floor, Malcolm can't make a move against him.

“The Lord sent you to me, Malcolm," John says earnestly, enclosing his leather-bound Bible between rough hands. "Once you find God, you'll understand the path he's laid for you."

Malcolm wants to tell John that he's wasting his time. Instead, he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, shaking off the last vestiges of the shock as his body slowly stops twitching.

"You and I are going to do great things together, Malcolm. Just like your father always wanted." John says absently, as he opens the Bible and settles in. "In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth…"

~~~

For the next seven days, John reads him the Bible. And twice a day, every day he asks Malcolm, "Are you ready to accept God's plan for you, little Malcolm?"

If Malcolm attempts to answer, the collar shocks him and lays him out on the floor as his body twitches and quivers and he gasps to catch the breath that's punched from his lungs.

If Malcolm refuses to answer, John presses the button on the remote, anyway.

Malcolm wants to ask what John wants from him, wants to scream at him to go to hell, wants to beg him to stop using the collar as each shock tightens the muscles in his throat and makes it harder and harder to breathe. 

He wants to cry out that he doesn't want to die like this.

Instead, he lays there, silent, and lets John's words wash over him until he knows nothing but the sound of John's voice and the white hot pain from the collar as it rips apart his body. Until — disarmed and defenseless— the utter hopelessness takes over his entire being and leaves him a shell of himself that he doesn't even recognize.

When the team finally kicks down the door and rushes into the room, Malcolm doesn’t move. 

When Gil hauls him up, worried eyes boring into his, he barely acknowledges the man who's been like a father to him all these years.

When the lock is cut off and the collar is removed from his neck, exposing the minor burn marks to the cool air, Malcolm flinches away but doesn't say a word.

It's not until the next day, when Malcolm is curled on his side in a hospital bed, making himself as small as he possibly can, that Malcolm squeezes Gil's hand and whispers a quiet, "Thank you."

He chooses not to dwell on the way his body tenses up at the simple statement, bracing for a pain that will never come.

Instead, he begins to arm himself once again.

One word at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kate for always helping fix my awkward sentences 😂


End file.
